


Mess

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Shower Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift and Ratchet do the do in the washracks. Keeping quiet, though, is a bit of a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (belated) Smutsgiving! Enjoy :B

* * *

 

Drift was filthy.

A fight had broken out at Swerve's bar between two heavily-intoxicated members of the crew, and within minutes the situation had deteriorated into an all-out brawl. Rodimus had commed the third-in-command for backup, and the moment Drift had shown up at the door, a large canister of orange-colored engex had been hurtled his way. He had escaped uninjured, and the melee had died down quickly after that — but Drift was a mess, Swerve's bar was in shambles, and screw helping with any sort of cleanup, because the feeling of engex gumming up his joints and transformation seams was not the least bit pleasant. 

And so the former Decepticon marched his way through the corridors of the _Lost Light_ , headed toward the communal washracks on the command level of the ship. He passed the medibay, where he caught a glimpse of Ambulon and First Aid tending to a handful of the bar fight participants, then continued his trek until he finally reached his destination.

No, despite what some of the more kinky members of the crew might insist, bathing in engex was not pleasant at all. The sensation of it drying on his armor made Drift's plating itch, and he wanted it to be gone, immediately. He paused in the foyer outside the shower stalls, detaching all three swords and placing them on a bench there. They, too, were streaked with sticky engex and would have to be tended to as well. Drift sighed, made a mental note to never again respond to Rodimus' summons regarding bar fights, then headed into the washracks.

All but one of the stalls were empty. Hot steam glossed over Drift's armor, damp air tickling his vents and condensing on his plating. The third-in-command made a beeline for the final stall — then stopped, suddenly, when he heard —

"Y-yeah…"

Oh, Drift recognized that voice. It was emanating from the single occupied booth, and although he couldn't quite place its owner, it was more than obvious what was transpiring inside. Drift tried to will himself to keep moving, but he found his body rooted to the spot, listening, very much aware of the loud sputtering of fans from behind the door.

A gasped moan, then, "Yes — Drift. _Please_."

And in that moment, Drift knew _precisely_ who was in that booth.

He also knew, in that moment, precisely what had to be done. Quieter than a shadow, Drift crept closer to the stall door, the steam on the frosted glass obscuring its occupant. It was a breach of privacy, of course, and went against several on-ship regulations, but Drift didn't care: with a special command only he, Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus knew, Drift overrode the entry passcode, smirking as the door slid aside —

—   to reveal Ratchet, three fingers knuckle-deep in his dripping port.

"Call for me?" Drift asked casually, letting the door slide back shut behind him.

" _Drift —_ "

"You could've commed me, you know. Instead of, well…"

Ratchet yanked his fingers out of his port, only to point one accusingly at the third-in-command, jabbing it against Drift's breastplate. " _You_ — do you understand anything about — about _privacy?_ Or does all that garbage hippy programming advocate _communal baths and self-service sessions_ , too?"

"Not really," Drift said, feeling his lips curl into a wicked smile, "but that won't stop me from trying." And then he took a hold of Ratchet's hand, pulled it upward, and slid the index finger into his mouth. Whatever retort Ratchet was going to throw Drift's way died in his throat. Drift swirled his tongue around the digit, tasting Ratchet's fluids, then moved onto the next finger, and then the third. Finally, "You were saying…?"

"You're awful."

"I know."

"And you're a mess."

The sight of Ratchet fingering himself had been a nice distraction from the engex fouling up Drift's joints, but now that he was reminded of its presence, the third-in-command couldn't ignore the uncomfortable itch in his plating. "There was a — a brawl at Swerve's and — long story short, it was a messy affair."

It was the CMO's turn to smirk. "Well isn't that too bad."

"You're the one to talk," Drift said, edging closer to Ratchet. "Because I can't help but notice _you're_ a mess, too." And for that, Drift was less than surprised when Ratchet pulled the showerhead from its holder and sprayed it, full-blast, into the ex-Decepticon's face. Drift laughed through the rush of hot water, wrested the nozzle from Ratchet's grasp to return the favor, then pushed the CMO bodily into the brushed steel wall. "Now, I think you mentioned something about mutual jerkoff sessions —"

"Drift…"

"— but I'm not so sure I can keep my hands off of you."

Ratchet groaned. "Drift, must I remind you that this is a public place?"

"Didn't stop you from touching yourself and moaning my name."

And as soon as he saw Ratchet's optics glint with both hunger and challenge, Drift knew he'd won. The third-in-command pressed forward, nuzzling along Ratchet's chestplate and neck, one thigh pressed firmly against the wet heat of the CMO's open array. Dexterous fingers raked down Drift's back, and Ratchet appealed one final time, his tone entirely unconvincing, "You're _sure_ you don't want to take this elsewhere?"

"Absolutely positive." Their lips met, wet and hot, and Drift let one hand wander, let it trail down Ratchet's abdominal plating. His digits splayed over the medic's pelvic span, traced the panel protecting Ratchet's spike, then moved lower until his fingers reached the open port. Ratchet was leaking, and the warm lubricant felt sinfully nice as it slid against Drift's fingers. He pushed one into the CMO's port, and then another, spreading them against the soft mesh lining. Ratchet clung tighter, just managing to stifle a gasp as a third finger slipped inside. Drift rubbed his thumb over the CMO's external node, and this time, Ratchet failed to hide his groan of appreciation. "Open up," Drift murmured, lips ghosting over Ratchet's audial.

The CMO didn't need to be encouraged twice: his paneling folded away, and a moment later Ratchet's spike jutted between them, pressed hotly against Drift's pelvic array. Drift thrust his fingers into the dripping port a final time, then withdrew, opting to wrap his hand around Ratchet's spike instead. He pumped it lazily, languidly, all the while releasing his own equipment.

"Allow me," Ratchet grated, his voice hoarse. He gathered both his spike and Drift's in his hand, grinding that sensitive plating together as he worked his digits over them. Drift grunted and pushed forward, thrusting into Ratchet's grip, bracing himself against the wall with one hand, his other gravitating back to the soft, wet folds of the CMO's port. Ratchet hissed and squeezed tighter, and Drift could feel the other's electromagnetic field slowly start to spiral out of control — a needy, lustful tug that was only amplified by the stifling haze of the steam in their stall.

Again Drift thrust his hips, and again, spike rubbing against spike. He bit back a moan, then, "Ratch — I want to —"

Ratchet relaxed his grip and Drift, holding the CMO's port open, slowly nudged his spike inside, humming with delight as he was enveloped by tight, liquid heat. The third-in-command pulled out, then pushed in further, hissing as the sensory nodes along the shaft of his spike dragged against Ratchet's internal components. Again he pulled out, then with one final thrust their hips met and he was fully seated. Drift took a moment to relish the sensation: the pulse of the calipers that hugged his spike — the thrum of Ratchet's spark, spinning faster and faster within its casing — the tickle of hot water as it struck his plating and turned to steam — the dual roar of their fans. The CMO had thrown his head back against the wall, optics offline and jaw clenched, the fingers hooked into Drift's back twitching. "Kid — _move_."

And Drift obliged. The third-in-command braced his hands against the slippery wall, one on either side of Ratchet's shoulders, then drew out almost completely before slamming back in. Ratchet grunted, but as Drift worked himself into a steady rhythm, a low moan began to build in his throat, punctuated every time Drift's thrusts hit home.

"Love you," the ex-Decepticon murmured against Ratchet's helm, before surging forward to sink his dentae into the soft cabling of the CMO's neck. With every thrust, Drift felt Ratchet's spike poke against his abdominal armor, leaving a hot smear of transfluid in its wake, and Drift only pressed in harder, laving his tongue over that unprotected throat. A sharp snap of his hips, a snarl from Ratchet, and —

— the door to the washracks chamber whisked open. Drift froze, and so did Ratchet, as heavy footfalls carried past their stall then stopped, abruptly, at the adjacent booth. The deep frown on Ratchet's face would have been comical in any other circumstance, but the charge running through Drift's body was almost painful and his spike throbbed, desperate for release.

_«It's Ultra Magnus,»_ Drift sent through their private communications line. _«I'm certain of it.»_

Ratchet looked mutinous. _«You fragging idiot.»_

But Drift felt himself grin a slag-eating grin. _«Guess you'll just have to keep quiet, eh?»_ And he jerked his hips, laughing silently as the CMO nearly failed to stifle his cry. _«Can you do that?»_

_«Can you?»_

_«We'll just have to find out, huh?»_ Drift leaned into Ratchet's frame, nuzzled the CMO's jaw, then slowly began to work himself back into a rhythm. He was more careful, this time: careful not to let their pelvic armor touch, as to avoid telltale noises, careful not to let his plating rasp against Ratchet's. Shallower thrusts left Ratchet unfilled, and the CMO writhed against the wall, optics shuttered, face screwed up as he was stuck on that tedious precipice between _needing_ and _getting_.

And Drift couldn't have that. He decided, at that point, to disregard Ultra Magnus and whatever rules and regulations he and Ratchet were undoubtedly breaking. Ultra Magnus was observant to a fault, and it was more than likely the Duly Appointed Enforcer already knew what was happening in the stall adjacent to him. It was also more than likely that Magnus was embarrassed beyond all measure. Drift smirked at the thought.

Without any hesitation or forewarning, the third-in-command hoisted one of Ratchet's legs and wrapped it around his waist, then bucked his hips, slamming his spike deep into the CMO's port. He pulled out, feeling every node along the shaft of his spike set alight by the conductive lubricant, then plowed back in. Ratchet's armor rattled against the wall, a rhythmic slam, and his vocalizer spat static as he tried, desperately, to stay quiet. With every thrust, Drift's spike was sucked in deeper, and he felt himself becoming lost in the hazy sensation of an impending overload.

Ratchet was the first to break his vocal silence: a low moan spilled from his lips as the base of Drift's spike ground against the rim of his port, sending lubricant gushing down his thighs. Drift grinned, released Ratchet's leg, and swiftly found the CMO's spike. He stroked it, tugging it in time to his thrusts, feeling the reverberation of the full-body shiver that was ripping through Ratchet's frame.

With a guttural snarl the medic overloaded, port calipers clamping down almost painfully tight, spike jetting transfluid over Drift's hand and abdominal plating. Drift continued to thrust, feeling rather than hearing the breathy gasps that were escaping his throat. A second overload tore through Ratchet's frame and finally Drift, too, tumbled over the edge, his spinal strut bowing as he emptied into the CMO's spasming port.

Strutless and overheated, Drift swayed, unable to lean upon Ratchet's sagging frame for support. The slippery wall was equally unhelpful, and the third-in-command crashed to the floor, hot water striking his searing armor and evaporating on contact. Drift reset his optics, then glared at the plating on his forearm. Unsurprisingly, he _still_ had engex gumming up his joints.

Once Ratchet regained his bearings, he offered Drift his hand. The third-in-command latched onto it, then gingerly climbed to his feet, legs still quivering beneath him. _«Thanks, Ratch.»_

_«Ultra Magnus is going to send us both to the brig, and you know it.»_

Drift smirked. _«Don't pretend it wasn't worth it.»_

_«Well aren't you just a smug little glitch.»_ Ratchet pulled the showerhead off its holder, then began to hose Drift down in what appeared to be a legitimate attempt to clean the engex from his frame. _«Let's do this quick before —»_

Ultra Magnus cleared his throat. "Wasting cleaning solvent and water. A direct violation of Section Ninety-Two (b) of the Tyrest Accord, concerning the Allocation of Resources During Interstellar Travel."

Drift and Ratchet _bolted._

* * *

FIN

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
